Patchwork
by Scullysfan
Summary: A family heirloom opens the lines of communication.


Title: Patchwork  
Author: Scullysfan  
  
Classification: VR, a bit of A  
Rating: PG  
Distribution: Do not archive at Gossamer. I'll take care of ATXC   
myself. Okay for Spookys. Anyone else, please ask first.   
Thanks. : )  
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder and Scully are the property   
of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are not mine and no   
copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Timeline: Takes place after "Tithonus" but before M&S get the   
X-Files back.   
  
Author's notes: This is a sequel to Jean Robinson's "Cold   
Comfort". Readers can probably enjoy this without reading "Cold   
Comfort," but I think it would make more sense if you read her   
story first. And really, a story as good as hers should be read no   
matter what. ; ) It can be found here:   
http://chroniclex.simplenet.com/coldcom.txt . Also, there's a   
reference made to an event that took place in Gwendolyn's   
excellent story, "Eight and Twelve". This time, it's *not*   
necessary to read the other story to understand the reference,   
but again, hers is not to be missed and can be found on her site.  
  
More notes and thanks at the end.  
  
Summary: A family heirloom opens the lines of communication.  
  
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at   
Scullysfan@aol.com.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Scully knew she ought to be more satisfied.   
  
After seven days of recovery from a severe case of pneumonia --   
five of them spent in the hospital enduring countless aerosol   
respiratory treatments and needle punctures, and the last two   
tucked in an expansive bed in one of Seattle's finest hotels -- she   
was finally home.   
  
The doctor who treated her had advised them to remain in the city   
even longer. With congestion as she had, in her head as well as   
her chest, it wasn't at all wise to put herself 33,000 feet in the air   
for the six hour flight home. Doctor Well-Meaning told her that.   
Mulder, his forehead bearing those concern creases she'd come   
to expect with her every hospitalization, told her that. Loudly.   
  
For two days, she believed them. She lay propped up on fat hotel   
pillows so not every breath resulted in convulsive coughing until   
tears ran down her cheeks; she had to clutch Mulder's hand to   
keep him from calling 911. She sipped from an array of liquids   
she could hardly taste, and no matter what he brought to tempt   
her, nothing met the desire she couldn't name.   
  
Finally she threw good sense and Mulder's protests to the wind   
and declared herself fit for travel. Everyone knew patients   
recuperated better in a familiar environment, she insisted. What   
she wouldn't admit to him was that she was worried about the   
consequences of both of them being away from the Bureau.   
Kersh was looking for any reason to be rid of them, and though   
she would still require several more days of medical leave, Mulder   
could return to work. And while he was at it, he could keep an   
eye on Spender and Fowley's mishandling of the X-Files.   
  
So they'd flown home, the trip every bit as agonizing as she knew   
it would be. No little boys traded insults across her lap, but the   
pressure building in her head rendered her nearly deaf. The stale   
cabin air woke a tickle deep in her lungs -- a tickle that climbed   
her bronchial tubes like a jungle gym.  
  
The plane had barely reached its cruising altitude when she felt   
mucus bubbling up from pockets of lung tissue. She jerked   
upright, feeling Mulder scramble for the Kleenex in her carry-on.   
Well-accustomed by now to what she needed, he passed the   
tissue to her. Her hand clenched into a fist around the softness.   
  
There was time for but one shallow breath before her lungs seized   
and a familiar wet cough reverberated through her body. Holding   
the tissue over her mouth so she didn't contaminate the seat in   
front of her, she coughed until the cacophony in her chest quieted   
to a whispering rattle and her achy muscles gave out.   
  
Exhausted, she'd slumped back into her seat and allowed Mulder   
to gather her close, a gesture she welcomed once the wracking   
was over, but not before. Having her next breath just out of her   
reach was almost more than her control-seeking self could stand.   
Even his gentle arms felt like chains until the coughing ceased.   
  
Scully had allowed herself one more such fit before she broke   
down and took the medication her doctor promised would knock   
her out. She spent the rest of the flight scarcely aware of anything,   
save for the weight of Mulder's head leaning on hers and the slow   
drag of his hand over her hair.   
  
The cab ride home from the airport had passed in a blur, and it   
was late that evening before she awoke and realized Mulder had   
managed to get her into her apartment, undress her, and pour her   
into bed without her conscious mind registering any of it.   
  
  
They'd arrived home on Friday, and she was glad. It gave her the   
weekend with Mulder before he had to go back to sifting through   
manure for Kersh, and an extra two days for her to kick this   
pneumonia in the ass.   
  
She'd slept off-and-on the next day and a half, waking to stumble   
to the bathroom or to eat the soup Mulder brought to her bedside.   
He'd gone to the store early Saturday morning and must have   
bought out the entire inventory of Campbell's soup.   
  
Chicken noodle, minestrone, bean and bacon, cream of broccoli.   
If Campbell's made it, he tried to feed it to her.   
  
But it wasn't what she wanted.   
  
And neither was her down comforter. Any other weekend and it   
would feel like heaven. Light enough to allow the movement of   
their bodies against each other, but insulating enough to keep   
them warm as their sweat-slickened skin cooled.   
  
In between naps and the never-ending parade of soup bowls,   
she'd alternated between tossing the comforter aside and   
burrowing under it until only the top of her head was exposed.   
Her frustration had grown throughout the day and finally spilled   
over into Sunday and onto Mulder.   
  
He'd only asked what kind of soup she wanted for lunch, standing   
there in her bedroom doorway, fresh from the shower but still   
wearing shadows under his eyes. His souvenirs from her illness.   
  
It wasn't fair for her to take it out on him. To lash out at him   
because she could survive branched DNA and a coma, cancer   
that dried up and blew away thanks to a computer chip, and a   
gunshot wound, all with some modicum of control and dignity, but   
give her a perfectly normal bug and she turned into the patient   
from Hell. But she'd just thrown her covers to the foot of the bed,   
revealing two stark white legs covered with stubble, and suddenly   
the prospect of more heat-n-serve soup was too much to bear.   
  
"Something that doesn't taste like metal."   
  
Mulder's face had fallen for a second at her sharp words before he   
recovered, uttering a soft "I'll see what I can do" as he turned   
away. She heard him dressing in the bathroom and minutes later,   
when she'd begun to regret her impatience and considered going   
to him, the front door opened and closed behind him.   
  
Which left her right back where her thoughts had started.   
  
She was home, in her own bed, and with a man who had already   
proven he'd go to the ends of the earth for her waiting on her, hand   
and foot. So why was her mind playing "I Can't Get No   
Satisfaction" on a continuous loop?   
  
  
Scully was curled into a fetal position in the middle of the bed,   
shivering thanks to her final rejection of the comforter, when she   
heard him return a couple hours later. He didn't come to her right   
away. Muffled clatters of glass and silverware, the beeping and   
whirring of the microwave reassured her that she hadn't   
completely killed his nursemaid spirit.   
  
At the tell-tale sounds of Mulder readying her tray for lunch, she   
sat up Indian-style and reached for the small pharmacy on her   
bedside table. Nasal spray opened clogged passageways so   
maybe she could smell her food, even if she had no hope of   
tasting yet. One horse-sized antibiotic cleared a path for two   
smaller pills that promised drowsiness if she operated without   
alcohol on a heavy machine-gun.   
  
Or something like that.   
  
She was returning her medicine to the table and idlely wondering   
if the pills caused goofiness too, when Mulder approached her   
bedroom.   
  
He stopped before entering and scrutinized her, his eyes a little   
bit wary but mostly amused. "Is it safe to come in, or should I   
wait until you've medicated yourself?"  
  
"It's safe. I'm drugged, and..." She rested her hand on his   
forearm when he came to stand next to the bed. "And I'm sorry,   
Mulder."  
  
"It's okay, Scully. I figure it's only fair," he reassured her as he   
lowered his face to hers, starting to drop a kiss on her reddened   
nose. She quickly clamped her hand over her mouth and nose   
and shook her head. Detouring to her forehead, he added, "After   
all, you had to deal with mimes while I was in the hospital." He   
slid the tray on her lap, and she balanced it carefully. "You got   
it?"  
  
Steam curled up from a wide mug of soup. Leaning her face over   
the tray, she felt the moist heat bathe her skin and much to her   
surprise, she could detect the fragrant aroma of the thick broth   
and vegetables. Maybe her olfactory senses hadn't been forever   
snuffed out. Buttery crackers lay next to the mug, with a cup of   
tea rounding out the repast. On the surface, the meal looked   
identical to those she'd grown tired of the last few days, but the   
smell betrayed the difference.  
  
"What is this?" She steadied the tray as Mulder sat beside her,   
the bed dipping under his weight.  
  
"I thought you'd recognize soup by now."  
  
"Mulder...," she prodded. He snatched a cracker and shoved it in   
his mouth.   
  
"Taste it and see."   
  
"If I can..." She blew gently on the steaming spoonful of liquid   
before taking it into her mouth. Flavors and textures long-forgotten   
flooded back as she savored the tender bites of chicken, fusilli,   
and carrots, the celery and spices breaking through congestion to   
soothe a need deeper than hunger. Swallowing the delicious bite,   
she stared at him in surprise. "Mulder... this is my mother's   
soup."  
  
If Scully had gotten sick any other time, her mom would have   
already whipped up a batch of her special chicken noodle soup   
and made it a part of her daughter's daily diet. Maggie had spent   
two weeks with Bill Jr. and his family, however, arriving home with   
the beginnings of bronchitis two days before she and Mulder flew   
back. Speaking to her mother on the phone, Scully had   
persuaded her it would be better for both of them if they not visit   
until each had recovered. The comfort food in front of her would   
seem to indicate Maggie's improving health.  
  
He grinned at her. "There's life in those taste buds after all. I   
called her when I left earlier... thought maybe she knew some   
secret for taming her cranky daughter." Gentle fingers swirled   
patterns on her right kneecap, removing any sting she might feel   
from his words. "I didn't plan to go over and disturb her, but she   
said she'd just made herself some soup and wondered if I'd like   
to bring you some." He tried to steal another cracker, but she   
snatched it back, crumbling it into her soup. "Promised it was   
part of a sure-fire cure."  
  
"It always was. Mom made it whenever one of us was sick... a   
huge pot of it, since if one was contagious, eventually the rest of   
us followed."  
  
She wouldn't have imagined it possible, but the next bite tasted   
even better than the first, and with the third, a delicious warmth   
spread from her insides out.   
  
"Mmmmm... Mulder... thank you. I wanted something I couldn't   
name." Her hand cupped the side of his face. The pliable flesh   
of his lower lip moved as her thumb kissed where her mouth   
could not just yet. "Trust you to figure it out."   
  
Taking her hand in his, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist   
before waving her back to her food. "Better not give me credit. I   
just had the good sense to call your mom. And while we're on the   
subject, she sent something else she thought you could use."   
  
She raised her eyes in anticipation, but he stood and headed for   
the door. "Eat your soup while I put away the leftovers, and then   
I'll give it to you."   
  
  
  
By the time she drained the mug of soup, the buzzy sleepiness   
of the drugs threatened to override her curiosity. If Mulder planned   
to show her what else he'd brought from her mother's, he'd better   
be quick; she was fading fast.   
  
Right on cue, he hurried in with a grocery sack in his arms just   
as she set her tray on the desk and hopped back into bed. The   
brown paper bag, stuffed with something Scully could see was   
made of fabric, dropped to the floor at the foot of the bed with a   
muffled thump and crackle. Craning her neck to see what he was   
hiding, she was distracted when two fuzzy Mulders stripped off   
their t-shirts and tossed them on the chair.   
  
She shook her head. "I think my medicine's kicking in."  
  
"Good. Lie back on your pillows, Scully."  
  
"What's in the bag?" Three overstuffed pillows received punches   
from her fist as she molded them into one snowy white mound;   
lying flat still stirred the congestion until she had to cough or   
suffocate. She rested against them and watched as he reached   
into the bag.  
  
Mulder gave her a quick nod. "You'll find out. Close your eyes."  
  
More from their leadened weight than from obedience, her eyelids   
slid shut. She clasped her hands over her stomach and wiggled   
her toes in the cool air. Mulder's surprise slid from the rattling   
bag with a whoosh, and a breeze made her shiver just before a   
heavy warmth settled atop her.   
  
Her eyes flew open, drinking in a multitude of colors dulled   
slightly by the passage of time. "Ohh, Mulder...," she sighed and   
ran her hands over the different fabrics forming the patchwork quilt.   
There were almost as many textures as hexagon shapes   
composing the covering. The quilt wasn't one of intricate design   
or patterns, simply row after row of swatches, sewn together with   
a grandmother's love.   
  
Together with her mother's homemade chicken soup, the quilt   
completed one of Scully's most comforting childhood memories.   
It wasn't for every day use; Maggie brought it out at the first sign   
of serious sniffles or a fevered brow. For Scully at least, it was   
one constant in move after move to new places: a warm shield of   
security and love when she was at her most vulnerable, a colorful   
tent under which four pox-covered children played when confined   
to bed. She wasn't sure if she'd ever been so happy to see it.   
"Mulder... it's... it's my grandmother's quilt. She... Mom gave this   
to you?"  
  
He nodded quickly, looking relieved that he'd pleased her. "She   
said she'd been meaning to give it to you...that you should keep   
it."  
  
Tears pricked Scully's eyes. Growing up, she'd always assumed   
Missy would get the quilt -- one of the many advantages of   
senority over a little sister. As glad as she was to have it, it was   
an unfortunate reminder that a second chance at life wasn't the   
only thing for which she had Missy to thank.   
  
"Scully?" Mulder crouched beside her, his hand rubbing back   
and forth over her leg. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," she sniffed. "I'm fi --" She stopped when his hand   
gripped her leg.   
  
His eyes held disappointment -- not in her specifically, she was   
sure, but in their progress. Communication between them was   
an ongoing struggle, and the fact they were new lovers had   
changed little. Except perhaps for their power to hurt each other   
through the guise of protection. Usually it was a matter of one   
protecting the other, but sometimes the instinct to turn inward   
became overwhelming and hurts were hidden from the very person   
who cared the most.   
  
Mulder had made the first move to change that, even before their   
partnership had evolved into something more. He'd opened up to   
her late one night, the night he'd done the incomprehensible.   
  
Denied he had a sister.   
  
They'd stopped at a drugstore in Nowheresville, on a run-of-the-mill   
case. She was sure Mulder hadn't intended to cut Samantha out   
of his life when he struck up a conversation with the affable sales   
clerk. It was idle small talk: "Has your family always lived in this   
area?" "Do you have a big family?" "What about you, any   
brothers or sisters?" "No." "You're an only child?" "Yes, I'm an   
only child." Scully didn't confront him, knowing immediately the   
guilt that washed over him. Later that night, he'd come to her   
room and introduced her to Samantha. He painted story pictures   
of their brief childhood together and promised never to deny her   
again. Missy deserved as much from her sister.   
  
Patting his hand, she smiled. "I was just thinking of Missy. I   
always thought this quilt would go to her." At Mulder's slow blink   
and lowered head, she leaned over to put her arm around his   
neck. "But I'm glad to have it... to be reminded of her, of the   
years she and I spent growing up with Bill and Charlie." When he   
lifted his head at her words, she pressed her lips to his cheek and   
continued. "Thank you for bringing it to me."   
  
She was delighted to see a shy grin spread on his face. "It wasn't   
really... it... was your mom's idea. I was just the messenger boy."   
  
"I'll be sure to call her tomorrow and say thank you." She   
scooted over a bit and folded back one corner of the quilt. "I'm   
going to fall asleep soon. Take a nap with me?"  
  
His answer was to strip down to his boxers in near record time   
and slide in beside her. Nudging her forward, he rested on the   
pillows and pulled her back to lean against his chest. Together   
they pulled the quilt over them and he enfolded her in his arms.   
  
"So how old is this thing?"  
  
"Ummm... I was around eight when my grandmother finished it..."   
She nuzzled her head against his chest. "...About twenty-seven   
years old, I guess."  
  
"Your grandmother made it?"  
  
"Mmmhmmm..." She fought to remain awake. They hadn't   
talked like this since before the incident in Seattle. "The patches   
are from our clothes when we were kids. Most of the clothes   
were Billy and Missy's, since they'd been around longer and had   
accumulated more. Some were passed down to Charlie and me,   
and then Grandma Scully cut them up for the quilt when we got   
too big for them."  
  
One of Mulder's hands drifted from where it rested on her arm and   
explored the material it could reach. He stopped on a flannel   
hexagon; the fabric with its white background and superhero   
dressed in patriotic colors was nubby with balls of fuzz.   
  
"Wonder Woman, Scully?"   
  
A slow grin bloomed on her face at his tone. Part surprise, part   
amusement, and dare she say... part desire. "You like my   
Wonder Woman pajamas, Mulder?"  
  
"They probably weren't as sexy as her costume..."  
  
"I was seven years old!"  
  
A chuckle rumbled from his chest as he stroked her hip through   
the remnant of her childhood sleepwear. "I always knew you were   
a wonder woman." He lowered his head to whisper in her ear.   
"Anyone obsessed enough to have the pajamas must have had   
the magic lasso... do you think your mother could find it for us?"  
  
She twisted her neck to look at him. "Us?"  
  
"You?"  
  
Turning back around, she shook her head ruefully. "'Fraid you're   
outta luck, Mulder. Mom wouldn't let me have the lasso. She   
said she was worried I'd hang myself, but I suspect she was more   
afraid of what I would do to Bill."  
  
Mulder's burst of laughter was contagious, but soon the giggles   
stirred up a storm in her chest. Cough after cough rolled from her   
until she found some relief and rested again in the quilted cocoon.   
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Yeah," she sighed. "I'm going to be sore from the repeated   
coughing... from the strain on the abdominals and pectorals." A   
little huff escaped at the memory of a similar hurt.   
  
"What?"  
  
"I was just remembering... I may not have had the magic lasso,   
but I had Wonder Woman's invisible plane."   
  
"Why Scully... I had no idea you were open to such extreme   
possibilities as a kid."   
  
He ooffed as her elbow made contact with his ribs. "Do you want   
to hear this or not?"  
  
She jumped ahead before he had time to make up his mind. "It   
was the last time I wore those pajamas now that I think about it."  
  
"What was the occasion?"  
  
"An early morning flight. Bill told me if I wore my official Wonder   
Woman pajamas and took a running leap from a site high off the   
ground, the invisible plane would fly as long as I believed."  
  
"Why do I have the feeling a skeptic was born from this   
experience?"  
  
Nodding, she continued. "So I climbed to the roof of Billy's   
treehouse. It was... maybe fifteen feet off the ground. Six o'clock   
in the morning... I'd stayed awake all night so I could take off   
before Mom came to wake me up for school."  
  
"Devious kid, weren't you?"  
  
"More like determined. I ran as fast as I could, which wasn't very   
fast considering the runway was about four feet, and I jumped."   
  
The sensation of being completely without restraint, without   
support, came flooding back to her and she shivered.   
  
"And?" Mulder nudged her. "How far did you get?"  
  
"Oh, about fifteen feet," she said. "Straight down."   
  
"Ouch!"  
  
She wrapped her arms around her middle in remembrance of the   
pain. "Yeah... two cracked ribs, a laceration on my left temple,   
and one missing tooth. Bill felt badly, I think... especially after   
Mom was... finished with... him." The constant talking had raised   
a tickle in her throat as she choked out the last few words, so she   
motioned for Mulder to hand her the glass of water on the   
nightstand.   
  
As she drank, he asked, "Where were you flying, Scully?   
Paradise Island?"  
  
He took the water from her as she wiped at the dribbles on her   
shirt. Even half-sitting, she couldn't keep from missing her mouth.   
"Not quite. I wanted to see my father. He was at sea, on an   
aircraft carrier no less."   
  
"So you thought naturally..."   
  
"I don't think I thought at all. I was just a seven year old who   
wanted her daddy."   
  
They were quiet for a few moments. Scully thinking how some   
desires of a child never go away... Mulder, his thoughts unspoken   
to her, but known just the same.   
  
His hand came up to caress just under her collarbone, the touch   
light and soothing. It threatened to combine with the soporific   
powers of her medication and lull her to sleep. But his thoughts   
had moved on and he spoke, breaking the spell. "Looks like   
someone played ball."   
  
His fingers moved to the green material with half of a Viking's   
head still visible in yellow.   
  
"Bill and Charlie both did," she murmured. Scooting further back   
against him, she added, "Pee-wee football. That was Bill's   
jersey."  
  
"Was he any good?"  
  
"He was eight years old, Mulder. What do you think?"  
  
"Have you ever noticed you have a habit of answering my   
questions with one of your own?"  
  
Sitting up, she turned to offer him a glare, but couldn't muster one   
after seeing the warm twinkle in his eyes. She ignored him   
instead, choosing to play right into his hands. Her head fell back   
into the curve between his shoulder and neck and she sighed in   
mock exasperation.   
  
"Do you want to hear about this or not?"  
  
She took the kiss behind her ear as a "yes" and continued. "I   
think he was good for that level of play... my father certainly   
seemed to think so when he was home and could see Billy play."  
  
"Did you go to the games with your dad?"  
  
"We all did. Missy and I didn't pay much attention, as I recall."   
Memories of sunny afternoons in San Diego flooded her mind, of   
the shouts of parents and coaches, the smells of buttery popcorn   
and hot dogs mixing to fill the outdoors with the most   
mouth-watering of scents. Of the wind stirring the tall weeds   
surrounding her until they almost whistled, her hair lifting to swirl   
around her head until the cessation of the breeze allowed it to fall   
in messy strands. For some reason, the wind never seemed as   
eager to play with Missy.   
  
Mulder nudged her head with his chin. "You asleep?"  
  
"No, I was just remembering." Her back arched as she stretched.   
"There was this grassy area just beyond one of the end zones...   
wild flowers grew there among the weeds. Missy and I played   
there. She spent hours weaving flowers into chains."  
  
"Doesn't sound like something you'd enjoy..."  
  
"No... I scratched in the dirt for bugs and shoved them into the   
pockets of my overalls for Mom," laughed Scully. "The ones I   
didn't drop on Missy."  
  
"I'm sure that endeared you to her."  
  
"You can imagine. No... Missy was all girl." Her voice grew   
quieter. "As we got older, I tried to keep up with the boys,   
meeting every challenge they could think to throw at me. Missy...   
Missy always found a friend, no matter where we moved.   
Someone she played dress up with, told secrets to..." Scully   
stopped for a moment, clearing her throat to drive away the   
huskiness creeping into her voice. "...Got into trouble with.   
Moving so often was hard for her. Just when she'd make a good   
friend, Dad would get new orders. She never took it well."   
  
She lifted her head to search the quilt for a particular patch.   
Scully had only been six years old, and it hadn't even been her   
angst making itself known but she could remember it like it was   
yesterday. There. Right beside the hideous purple double-knit   
material. Did she really wear that little jacket?  
  
"See that burgundy patch down there?" She wiggled the toes of   
her left foot to indicate the one she meant. "The one with the   
paisley pattern..."  
  
"I see it."   
  
"It's from a dress Missy wore to her best friend's birthday party   
one year. She didn't want to go, didn't want to wear that dress...   
Mom made her."   
  
"I thought this kid was Missy's friend."   
  
"She was. But we were moving to the naval base in Pensacola,   
Florida the next day... she hated saying good-bye. It never   
stopped her though... no matter how much it hurt when it was   
time to leave, she always risked it when it came to making   
friends."   
  
Scully sniffled and waved her arm toward the Kleenex, blowing   
her nose when he passed her one. God, if she didn't get this stuff   
out, her head was going to explode. Tossing the used tissue over   
the bedside, she rolled over and draped her chest over Mulder's,   
throwing one leg over his. She wrapped one arm underneath his   
shoulder, and he held her other hand against his heart. His body   
was so warm against hers, the quilt insulating them from the chill   
in the air as well as it had years ago. Sleep was just around   
the corner, she could tell; her eyelids fluttered closed. He must   
have sensed it, too -- his words were whispered into her hair.   
  
"What about you, Scully? Was leaving difficult for you?"  
  
They were moving into tender territory here, where words masked   
meanings and questions hid insecurities. Her eyes opened again   
and stared while his fingers traced runes in the back of her hand.   
  
"I got used to it. Mostly I threw myself into my classes; teachers   
were the same everywhere, and I could take my books with me.   
Couldn't do that with friends. I... I wasn't as brave as Missy in   
that area."  
  
"Time... and circumstances and... people can change that," he  
ventured.  
  
She smiled sleepily. "Yes, they can."  
  
A yawn escaped as Mulder cradled her closer to him. She was   
hovering just over the border between wakefulness and dreamland,   
content and satisfied at last. The soup filling her belly and the   
quilt swaddling her body had reminded her of simpler times,   
yes... of being cared for. And Mulder... Mulder, as always,   
reminded her she was loved.   
  
Did he know that feeling, she mused?  
  
She felt the quilt being tugged higher over her shoulder and tucked   
under her chin as his low voice rumbled. "Scully, if you ever   
leave..."   
  
Her reply was automatic, even in the haze of sleep. "I'm taking   
you with me."   
  
He squeezed her more tightly, and she heard satisfaction in his   
sigh.   
  
Yes, he knew.   
  
  
END  
  
  
Author's thanks: To Jill and Laney, my chief editors, encouragers,   
and comma helpers -- Laney especially for the in-depth reminder   
of the fashions of the late '60s and early '70s. (Why, oh why, did  
we ever wear double-knit poleyster anything? g)  
  
Thanks to Jesemie's Evil Twin for the suggestions and for saying  
her toes tingled. ; ) To Jean Robinson for letting me write a sequel  
to a story that was good enough not to need one in the first place,   
and to Gwendolyn for graciously allowing me to use an event in   
one of her fics in this one.   
  
  
Feedback gratefully accepted at: Scullysfan@aol.com  
  
  
Missing parts of this fic and all of my other stories can be found on  
my website:   
http://members.aol.com/scullysfan/myfic.html  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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